by Helen Gosney
“I’m honoured, Rowan, but I’m not good enough,” he said.
“Ross, that doesn’t matter…” Rowan said, “I’m a swordsman like any other who needs an opponent to practice with. Sword drills will only take you so far. Much as I hate the cursed circle, I need to work in it for the Trophy. Please, I’d be grateful for your help.” He looked at Ross’s stunned face for a moment and smiled, “If I can’t talk you into it, I’ll have to spar with Griff and his damned axe and I think Stefan wouldn’t like that. You know what a worrier and a nag he can be sometimes, I’d never hear the end of it.”
Ross gulped.
“You wouldn’t really spar with… against Griff, would you?” he managed.
Rowan shrugged.
“Wouldn’t be the first time. But truly, an axeman isn’t the ideal opponent for a swordsman, the whole way of going about it’s different,” he said.
Ross’s eyes widened as he thought about it. Griff truly was a gentle giant of a man, but Ross had seen him chopping wood and with an axe in his hands he looked terrifying.
“I’ll go and get my sabre then, but I’m truly not good enough,” he said, “I just don’t want to be the one who has to explain to Stefan why you’ve only got one arm.”
“Griff’s never managed to cut my arm off yet and I truly don’t think he’s going to do it now. He’s fast for his size, but he’s not that fast,” Rowan laughed, “But I’m grateful I don’t have to chase him around, and I’m sure he will be too. Truly, the circle’s not quite the right size for him.”
Ross had found that his swordsmanship had improved markedly. Rowan hadn’t been pushed by their workouts, but that hadn’t been the point. He was retaining his sense of where he was in the circle and that was what was important, and he said as much to Ross.
“I’m going to ask the lads too, in a few days… with your permission of course. I’d be teaching them more than sparring with them though, I think. They’ve worked so hard here, ‘tis only fair that I help them a bit with their sabres. And I’m being selfish too, I… truly, I just need someone to run around this bloody circle with and I certainly don’t expect you to do it every day.”
**********
“’Tis your turn today, lads. Who’ll be first?” Rowan said to the Cadets one morning a couple of days later. They’d watched him flow effortlessly through his sabre drill as they did every morning, but now they both gaped at him, flabbergasted.
Kurt found his tongue first.
“Us…? You want to spar with… with us? But we’re useless,” he managed.
“’Tis all relative, Kurt. Sword Master Stefan told me you’re among the best of your year. He said you just need a bit more confidence,” Rowan smiled at him.
“Did he? But…” Kurt said.
“He must have been drunk that day,” Dorrel muttered.
Rowan laughed at him.
“He gave a pretty good account of himself in the circles if he was. He kicked Corran’s backside, as I recall, and damned nearly kicked mine. Look, lads, ‘tis like this. You’ve seen me spar with Ross and I haven’t bloody killed him, have I? No, and I won’t kill you either unless you give me a very, very good reason to. Apart from the mess it’d make, I’d have to fill in a hell of a lot of forms for Captain Fess and he’d probably decide to hang me for my trouble,” he smiled at their stunned faces, “Truly, you’d be helping me out here. Stefan will nag me endlessly if you go back to Den Siddon and I’ve not helped you a bit with your sabres, and I need to practice in the cursed circle or else I lose my sense of where I am in it,” he sighed softly, “But I feel like a complete idiot dancing around in it by myself, and that’s the truth of it.”
“But… what about Ross…?” Dorrel asked uncertainly, “He’s a hell of a lot better than us…”
Rowan shrugged.
“Aye, he is too. But it doesn’t matter,” he said, “He’s a hell of a lot better than you, and you’re a hell of a lot better with a sabre than Griff, though I’d advise you not to take him on if his axe is anywhere handy,” he smiled, “And at the end of the day I’m a hell of a lot better than the lot of you. ‘Tis all relative, but tisn’t important.”
Ross strolled up to them. He’d been out in the paddocks with Griff, checking on the mares and foals. He smiled at the lads’ worried faces. He was a good swordsman himself, but he’d felt the same when Rowan had asked him to spar with him.
“Hello, lads,” he said, “You two look like the last hens in the henhouse, when the fox comes a’calling.”
“Rowan’s asked us to spar with him…” Kurt said very doubtfully.
Ross nodded. He and Rowan had talked about this and he knew the lads would learn a lot. He had himself, more than he’d thought possible in the short time.
“Then you should be very bloody honoured and thank him and grab the opportunity with both hands,” he said, “It’s not everyone who can say that they’ve sparred with the dual Champion, especially when he’s at the top of his game; most would sell their grandmother for the chance… I’d go and get my sabre before he changes his mind if I were you.”
Kurt and Dorrel stared at Ross, wide-eyed. Rowan was so casual and unconcerned about it all that it was easy to forget his legendary status, but Ross was right; it certainly wasn’t usual for a recruit to spar with the Champion, though this particular Champion sometimes came to their classes to help the Sword Master to demonstrate a particular point. But here he was, asking them both. Kurt came to his senses first.
“Thank you, Rowan. It truly is an honour that we don’t deserve. You just, er, surprised us. No, shocked us, to be truthful, ” he said, “Start warming up, Dorrel, you idiot. I’ll go and get the sabres. We’ll wipe the floor with that stuck-up bugger Birren when we get back!” He ran off quickly.
“Who’s Birren?” Rowan wondered.
“He’s in our group,” Dorrel said as he threw off his shirt and started to warm up, “His father’s a bloody gentleman, and so’s he as he never tires of telling us, and he fancies himself with a sabre.”
“And is he any good?” Rowan asked softly, “Better than you and Kurt?”
“Aye, he is, unfortunately. He’s been waving a blade around since he was nine or ten. The bastard never lets any of us forget how damned good he is, how much better he is than everyone else.”
Rowan nodded thoughtfully. He knew a bit about gentlemen like this too.
“Not for much longer, he won’t be. You’ll kick his backside for him when I’m finished with you. Hard. There’s few things more satisfying than doing that to an arrogant, self-satisfied bloody gentleman, and it’d give me great pleasure to help you do it. Let’s go, lad.”
“But… you’re training for the Trophy! We can’t let you interrupt that!” Dorrel exclaimed as Kurt hurried back with the sabres.
Rowan laughed.
“Don’t fret, Dorrel. Nobody ‘lets me’ do anything I don’t want to do,” he grinned at the lads cheerfully, “’Tis all only waving a sabre about when all’s said and done. Let me worry about it.”
And so the Cadets had sparred with the Champion. Kurt and Dorrel were very much looking forward to their next sabre practice when they got back to Den Siddon.
**********
27.“… how the other half lives.”
They set off for the logging camp after breakfast one morning nearly two weeks after Rowan had first mentioned it. The foaling was finished and Mica and Soot had done their job in the breeding barn. Rowan had decided to take both stallions into the forest, as the mares wouldn’t be running loose until the foals were a little older and besides, it was good for them to be ridden. He was riding Mica himself and Ross was riding Soot and marvelling at the stallion’s good manners and lovely smooth paces. Dorrel and Kurt were riding two of the young horses that would soon be troop horses and thinking much the same.
They went down through the town and over Moss’s bridge with a great clattering of hooves. The troll was already sitting on the verandah of his little cabin, h
aving breakfast, and he waved cheerily to them as they went past.
It wasn’t long after dawn when they came to the big open space in front of the timber yard by the river, but Ross was surprised to see that the place was full of horses: big, strong looking workhorses. There had to be fifty or more of them, and some were laden with supplies for the camp. There were several men there trying to calm the restless horses and quite a few dogs were barking and there was a good deal more commotion than was usual with foresters. Inevitably, as Rowan and his friends arrived, the horses stopped milling around and stood quietly watching him and the dogs stopped their noise and trotted up to sit beside Mica.
“Is this all of them, Efron? And all the supplies too?” Rowan asked a big man with his hair in the twin braids of the Mist Fern clan, “Nobody’s running late?”
“No, that’s the lot, Rowan. But are you sure you don’t mind…?” Efron replied with a smile. He’d been delighted when he’d heard Rowan would take the horses in to the camp and he planned to spend his unexpected holiday fishing.
“Of course not,” Rowan smiled at him, “I wanted to show the lads the deep forest, and this is a good excuse for us to go.”
“Mmm… I suppose it is too. Well, it certainly saves me and the others a trip, and the last of the cutters will have a couple of extra days at home too,” Efron smiled at the Wirrans sitting their horses beside Rowan, “You’re going at a good time, lads. The forest is always beautiful, not that I’m biased of course, but there’s a lot of things flowering now and a lot to see. Enjoy yourselves.”
“We will!” Dorrel and Kurt said quickly. They were looking forward to this very much. Isan and Conor had told them a lot about the deep forest and now they’d see it for themselves. They’d always subscribed to the common Wirran view that trees were… well, trees, but they were learning otherwise.
The little group made their goodbyes to the others and Rowan whistled softly as they trotted off down the road. At the signal the foresters simply released the workhorses and stood back.
“Bloody Hells, Rowan! I still can’t get used to that,” Ross said, looking back at the big herd of horses trotting along behind them with no trouble at all. He’d expected that they’d be herding them, but… no.
Rowan shrugged.
“Don’t fret yourself about it, Ross. Just be glad you don’t have to ride behind them in the dust.”
“Oh, I am, Rowan. I am.”
They turned off the road about a mile along and headed into the trees. There didn’t seem to be a track to follow, but it didn’t slow them down and after an hour or two they came to a small clearing in the trees, with a proper track and a little creek running through the middle of it. They stopped to rest.
The forest was magnificent. Many of the great trees were blossoming and the air was filled with the sweet scent of honey and the songs of birds and insects. Bright heartsblood and delicately painted orchids glowed in shafts of sunlight and tiny birds thrust ridiculously long bills into strange brush-like flowers that the Wirrans hadn’t seen before. The treeferns unfurled their huge fronds and below them tiny ferns and mosses and white and purple violets covered the ground. A little creature that they couldn’t see rustled in the undergrowth nearby and a pair of bright-eyed and eye-wateringly colourful parrots watched them from an overhanging branch.
“This is wonderful, Rowan,” Dorrel said quietly.
Rowan smiled at him.
“Aye, ‘tis. But wait until tomorrow morning…” he said cryptically.
Of course the Cadets and Ross wanted to know more, but he wasn’t about to tell them. Nothing he could say could do justice to what they’d see.
“Wait and see, lads,” was all they could get out of him.
They rode on through the trees and inevitably Rowan began to sneeze as the track wound through a dense stand of wattles in full glorious bloom.
“Dammit! How could I forget these bloody things!” He cursed more vigorously and urged Mica to a faster pace.
They stopped for the night in another clearing, this one in a bit of a hollow just off the track. It contained a solid little timber hut and a well-built yard for the horses and all around were treeferns and the magnificent Forest Giants. A flock of cockatoos settled in a tree perhaps a hundred paces away, squabbled noisily for a while, and then quietened.
“Be sure to be awake at first light, lads. Oh, and don’t crash about if you can help it. Sweet dreams,” Rowan said as they settled themselves into the sturdy bunks.
“You’re not going to bloody tell us, are you?” Kurt said as he made himself comfortable. It wasn’t late, but it’d been a long day. They’d had a good supper and talked for a while and now everyone was ready for bed.
“No, I’m not. Sleep well.”
**********
The dawn chorus woke them as it had every morning of their stay in Sian. The birds had proved to be just as reliable as any Guard bugler and a lot less jarring. Out here it all started with the odd tinkling call of the bellbirds, for all the world like the ringing of tiny, slightly off-key bells; then a magpie gargled and cleared its throat to begin its beautiful carolling song. One by one other birds joined in until the glorious cacophony rang through the great trees.
Dorrel and Kurt woke to see Ross standing by the open door, but Rowan was nowhere to be seen.
“Quietly now, lads. Let’s see what Rowan was on about. It’s not like him to be so bloody mysterious,” he whispered.
They hurried outside making as little noise as possible and found Rowan sitting with his back against a tree about a dozen paces away. He put a finger to his lips – shh - and pointed to his side. A plump little grey beast carrying two babies on her back was eating bread from his hand. It was a bit smaller than a cat, luxuriously furred, generously whiskered and extravagantly tailed, and it had a bright, inquisitive look about it. They stared in amazement as the little creature ate her fill and then scampered up the tree and into a hole. Her bright beady eyes gleamed as she turned herself around so that she and her babies might see them better.
“A good morning to you all, lads. You’re just in time,” Rowan smiled at them.
“Was that a possum you were feeding?” Kurt wanted to know. There were possums in Wirran too of course, but they were shy and rarely seen. Generally you only knew they were around when they ran across the roof in the middle of the night. Somehow their tiny paws sounded like they were shod with enormous hobnailed boots. And they were prone to making surprisingly loud screams and gargling noises, generally managing to give the impression that they were being horribly murdered. They could be most disconcerting in the early hours of the morning.
“Aye, that’s what she is. A brushtail. But that’s not really what I wanted you to see. Make yourselves comfortable, and just look around,” he smiled at them again, “And then tell me what you think…”
The Wirrans looked around curiously. A light fog shrouded the great trees, with here and there a thin shaft of early sunlight slanting through the leaves. The horses were dark shapes in the mist, nothing more… and suddenly the light was just right.
Myriad jewels gleamed on the trunks and branches of the trees, and they festooned the understorey of treeferns and bushes; even the ground around them looked like a dazzling carpet of gems, with black footprints showing where they’d walked. Wherever they looked, loops and strands and sheets of diamonds and pearls glittered brightly. Even the horses shimmered with tiny, bright crystals and they sparkled in Rowan’s hair and on his shoulders.
“It’s… it’s incredible… wonderful… I’ve never seen anything like it… What the hell is it, Rowan? ” Ross said softly.
“’Tis the mist caught in the little spiders’ webs, and on the bark and leaves and moss and things… and in the horses’ manes and tails… magic, isn’t it?”
They watched, spellbound, as the sun slowly rose a little more. As suddenly as they’d appeared, the gleaming jewels were gone. The trees towered up through the mist, huge and magnificent, an
d it seemed as though they sat in a great leafy cathedral. Dorrel and Kurt were too enthralled to say anything, but their rapt faces said enough.
“Gods! It’s no wonder you foresters never leave here,” Ross said, still awed by what he’d seen.
Rowan smiled at him again.
“Only us daft ones do, Ross. And now you know why we always come back…”
**********
28. The logging camp.
After another two days’ trek through the forest they came to the logging camp. It was in a great clearing, of course, but the Wirrans could see that not all of the trees had been cut down and there were big areas where tiny trees had been planted to replace those lost. The camp was neat and tidy and well set up with a number of timber cabins similar to those on the track and a couple of larger ones. All that could be heard was birdsong and the sound of axes and saws and several foresters singing to help them keep their rhythm as they worked. A soaring soprano voice led the others in what sounded almost like a stirring rendition of ‘The Adventures of Brother Biggun’, a very risqué song even by the standards of the surprised troopers. No, it simply couldn’t be…
“Who the hell is that?” Kurt asked in amazement.
Rowan listened carefully.
“Sounds like Daisy d’Farrel. Might be her sister, Violet. They’ve both got voices like angels. You should hear them singing ‘The Felling of the Giant’… ‘twould bring tears to a heart of stone,” he said.
“Girls? Out here?” Kurt said in amazement, “And what the hell are they singing now? It… er, it sounds like ‘Brother Biggun’, but, um, it couldn’t be… could it?”
“Aye, ‘Brother Biggun’, it is. Why could it not be?”
“Er… well… they’re girls…” And Biggun’s adventures were only rivalled by the legendary High Priest with a penchant for Harlots.
“Laddie, these particular girls are bigger and stronger than you are, with no disrespect intended to them or you,” Rowan smiled at him, “They’re not shy little flowers who’d faint at mention of a naughty word. They’re good lasses though. Wait until you meet them.”
